“The only reason I’m on this provincial lump of an island is to collect what is rightfully mine.” Martyn’s attention switched to Skye, who shifted in the hard plastic seat. An elderly man with a nasty gash on his cheek limped in and made his way to the reception desk, a teenage girl hurrying after him.
“Éla re, koúkla,” she heard him say to the girl as she fussed around him. “Eímai entáxei.”
Skye’s father had fallen a few times in the months leading up to his death, the worst incident resulting in a trip to the emergencyroom. Ten stitches and a strict warning from the doctor not to drink so excessively. It was a plea echoed by Skye, which had been roundly ignored. She should have intervened, done more, moved back in with her parents if necessary—though she hadn’t. Work had been time-consuming, her life a merry-go-round of chores, admin, and snatches of respite time. It had all felt vital then, but nothing should’ve mattered more than her father. When the phone had rung on that awful day and she’d seen her mother’s name on the screen, Skye had known. She’d justknown.
Andreas leaned forward. His expression had hardened. Martyn was the taller of the two, though her Greek friend was heavier, broader, stronger.
“A person cannot belong to another,” he said.
Martyn scoffed.
“Who said I’m here for her?”
Skye sat up a fraction higher.
“For God’s sake,” she interrupted.
Martyn turned to her. He looked almost bored, as if he hadn’t spent the past few weeks sending threatening emails, stalking her best friend at her place of work, and wheedling his way into her mother’s sympathies.Of coursehe was here for her.
“What?” Martyn asked. “It’s the truth. I don’t want you. As a matter of fact, I’m beginning to wish we’d never met.”
Skye let out a short, broken laugh.
“I can assure you that the feeling is one hundred percent mutual,” she said.
“However,” Martyn said acidly, deflating the small bubble of triumph that had bloomed within Skye, “the truth is, you have something of mine, and I would like it back.”
She looked away, stared hard at the opposite wall, with its posters showing various skin rashes and instructional diagrams forwashing your hands. The Greek letters swam as she fought the tremble in her bottom lip. From beside her, she heard Martyn emit a small huff.
“When you chose to steal from me, you really left me with no choice,” he said.
Andreas’s phone began to ring, and he stood with it in his hand, seemingly torn.
“It’s OK,” Skye told him. “You should answer it.”
Andreas tapped the screen, and bringing the phone to his ear, he said, “Nai. Perímene.”
“Go,” she said. “It’s fine, honestly.”
His eyes flicked back to hers.
“I will be outside,” he said. Then, turning to Martyn: “I will stay close—and do not worry,” he added with a look at Skye, “I know that he is lying.Éla, you are not a thief.”
He’d gone before she could muster a reply, though what could she say? On this occasion, Martyn was telling the truth. She had stolen from him, there was no point in denying it anymore.
“Mr. Lockhart?” A nurse had appeared in the doorway that led through to the examination rooms. When she saw that Martyn was in a wheelchair, she came toward them.
Skye didn’t wait. She fled, out through the door and into the street beyond, her heart a frantic drum, the heat slamming into her like a wall.
Andreas was a few feet away. She could tell at once that something was seriously wrong. His eyes were fixed, features pinched, lips pulled into a tight line.
“What’s happened?” she asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. “What is it?”
Andreas blinked, as if he barely recognized her, and then his face crumpled.
“Karolos,” he said, sounding so wretched that Skye stepped back.
“Your neighbor?” she said. “The old man with the dog?”
